


Heartbeats in the Dark

by Silberias



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark Sherlolly, F/M, Fluffy Molliarty, For dear Sherr-lock., Gen, Good!Jim, Jim is a good guy, Sherlolly - Freeform, and Mrs. Hudson doesn't brew so much tea as she does poison, dark!Sherlock, molliarty - Freeform, total fic subvert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 06:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty is a consulting detective and Doctor Molly Hooper is his assistant. She also has terrible taste in men, and he's tried before to warn her off of "Sherlock from down in the morgue." As it turns out, Molly Hooper's taste in men runs more towards sociopathic poisoners and snipers (but that was back in Uni, Jim!), which is admittedly worse than Jim had suspected. </p><p>Molliarty, bizarre fluff with a dash of dark!Sherlock for flavor. TWs in notes at the top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeats in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings:
> 
> I've marked this with both major character death as well as rape/non-con because I do have Mike Stamford killed off (pre-fic, but still). There's also a portion where you could make the argument that Dark!Sherlock is threatening unwanted sexual contact, and because my own triggers can go off with a breath of something like that I'm putting the warning in. When I wrote the scene, I confess I was under the influence of the new Bond villain--so take of that what you will if you've seen the new one.
> 
> Additional Notes:
> 
> This is an edited version of the story by the same name posted on my ff.net account as well as on tumblr (nmmi-nut and Silberias respectively). 
> 
> ~Sil

"You’d do best to stay away from him, love," Jim said, not looking up from his work. Economics, on a case for his half-brother Seb—blasted dull, but he needed to understand the angle the cadre of bankers must have been coming from and Molly was being useless at it. Said something along the lines of _Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor not an accountant!_ He had wisely decided at the time to not point out that he wasn't doing _accounting_. Jim liked the fact that Molly hadn't gotten fed up with him stealing her hair care products—he liked how they smelled and pointing certain things out nearly always led to her depriving him of something. You won't be able to get him to admit that he likes Molly’s shampoos because they remind him of her, though.

"I don't know who you mean, Jim."

She was seeing that man—again. He'd told her, again and again, that she should just go people-watching with him one day and he would find her a nice boyfriend. Molly would sniff and turn her head away at the suggestion, preferring to choose her own men and make her own mistakes. In certain lights, Jim could understand what she meant, but most of the time he couldn’t. This particular mistake was a bit of a repeat offender, however. A tall, pale man with curly hair—he had just transferred to this hospital a several months ago to study pathology, working as a lab tech as well. His name was Sherlock something or other—Sherlock from down in the morgue, as Molly always said. She was more than halfway serious about him, too, judging from the gift she’d gotten him for the small birthday party the office had had for him six weeks ago.

"Sherlock from down in the morgue."

The man was very accommodating for Jim's needs—so long as he brought Molly along with him, though Sherlock had the most unnerving habit of staring. At Jim. That was why he didn't like it that Molly was seeing him—if the lab tech only let them into the lab and the morgue when Molly was around, then why did he spend all of his time staring at Jim? It couldn't be some cover-up of homosexuality, because the man was perfectly able to pay genuine, focused attention to Molly—and say the things Jim felt like he was always meaning to say to her. Like how her hair looked better parted on the side, and noticing when she’d worn lipstick or not.

They had coffee a lot together too. Molly would ask whenever Jim got absorbed in whatever test results he was looking at—Jim wasn’t too sure they actually had _coffee_ sometimes. Sometimes _coffee_ was just a convenient euphemism, in his belief. Not that he ever asked. It wasn’t his business, as Molly constantly reminded him. Like she was about to—now.

"It's not any of your business, Jim. And neither were Mark, Dave, Jeff, Frank, Frank _lin_ , or Winston, for that matter. I go on adventures with you, and I help you solve cases and lend you a trained medical eye—and I'm incredibly grateful that you bring that to our friendship along with half the rent. But you aren't allowed to control who I date or see or fancy."

And that was just the thing.

Jim could feel Sherlock trying to take Molly away—the staring in the lab was almost done in a challenging way. _She's yours, and you're hers. But just how long can you keep her?_ And Jim knew that at the end of the day he couldn't keep Molly. Molly could choose to stay or go, and there was nothing Jim could do about it. For now she was choosing to stay, but everyone around him eventually wanted to do things like get married and start a family. Someday, those concerns would take her away and he wasn’t sure he would ever get her back.

 

* * *

_He couldn't see her eyes._

Jim had said he was going out for milk—Molly had been startled but pleased, settling easily back into watching her show on the telly. He'd known that the flat had been cased several hours ago, and he'd seen the lookouts too. He'd known that when he returned, Molly would be gone—kidnapped as all the other apparent suicides had been.

As he'd gone into the grocer several streets down, he'd texted the mysterious number attached to the time-bomb case. _I've got a present if you care to play. Text me the deets._ Seb's case about the bankers—underlings in Seb's company, really—had yielded a surprising find. An ancient jade hairpin, valued at millions, safe in someone's deposit box in Seb's own bank. His brother had given it to him out of gratitude—people to fire, no more blackmail from a Chinese gang, and there was nothing that could have made his brother happier. Whoever the kidnapper was— _Holmes_ whispered through his mind—they seemed to appreciate more exotic cultures than were grown in the British isles. It was a longshot that the hairpin would be worth a trade for Molly, but _something_ about the elegance and rarity of the poisons the man used told Jim that the hairpin would be just fine.

But he couldn't see Molly's eyes. She was blindfolded, tucked snugly against Sherlock’s body as he stood up on the ledge.

"Oh, John's told me all about how he used to flirt with a young thing back in university by blinking morse code—beautiful little woman named _Molly_ as it were. You won't be getting any secret messages from my darling doctor," Sherlock said, looking quite at home there. The text had said to meet _where it all started_. Jim had of course known immediately. St. Bart’s. The old hospital had had an _accident_ during a school tour, twenty years ago now. A twelve year old boy named Mikey Stamford had fallen out of a fifth story window to his death. It had been ruled as a horrific accident and a consequence of poor decisions on the boy's part. What had gotten Jim's attention at the time was that in all the papers Mikey's mother said he was afraid of heights—and his teacher and classmates had all been on the second floor touring the children's ward.

Unless a gregarious classmate— _Holmes—_ had convinced Mikey to explore. And that same gregarious classmate had gotten a window open and double-dog-dared Mikey to peek out of it. And that same gregarious classmate must have known how _serious_ such a dare was for a twelve year old boy.

Jim had known which window Mikey Stamford had fallen from, but the kidnapper had taken _Molly_. He deduced that for some drawn out confrontation, the hospital hallway was deemed a poor fit—leaving only the roof for the showdown.

"I must say I'm glad that you put it together that I was hardly going to do this on the fifth floor." _Sherlock from down in the morgue_ was unwavering up on the ledge, with his back to the long drop behind him, one arm around her waist and while his other hand covered her mouth. _Holmes._ She was holding very still, and it seemed like she wasn't crying—and that comforted Jim. She was holding steady, as she always did. No tears from Molly Hooper, no matter what happened.

"Let Molly go."

"Oh now,” there was a petulant frown in the other man’s voice, “I know your name. You're _Jim Moriarty, the genius detective_ _with that woman who he insists isn't his girlfriend_. Please tell me you know mine by now."

 _Holmes_. He'd gotten the name out of that American who had been killing cab drivers, though he'd had to pose as a cabbie in the first place to bait the man into trying to attack him. Molly had been furious with him when she’d found him out.

"You're Sherlock Holmes. A madman."

"Oh I wouldn't say I'm mad. Not nearly as close to it as you are on a given day according to my dear Miss Hooper. Tell me, does it ever get easier?"

"Does what get easier?" Jim played for time, and Sherlock rested his head in the crook of Molly's neck, pursing his lips as he worded his answer. Jim held the gun steady, desperately trying to do the math in his head to know if he could catch Molly as she fell if he managed to squeeze off a headshot on Sherlock. The other man's eyes narrowed as though he were following the same line of maths and didn’t like the conclusion.

"Answering the letters, the moronic letters written by all the dolts in England it seems. The _dear Jim please find Snowflake, dear Jim please locate my stolen jewels, dear Jim, dear Jim, dear Jim_ letters. You answer all of yours yourself, you've even answered some of mine that I sent just to test the theory. Personally I've just gotten to the point where I turn the job over to John and make him filter them for me. You'd even have this sweet thing to do it for you," abruptly Sherlock's attention turned to Molly, first giving her a kiss on the jaw and then a nip on the ear, "your hair smells like oranges, Darling, and it's driving me _mad_ for you. After we get your stupid detective to off himself, you and I are going to spend some _quality_ time together like we haven't been able to in a _while_. We’ll go back to mine, the bed’s bigger if you’ll remember.”

For the first time in the entire time he'd known her, Jim saw Molly flinch.

He took a deep breath—he would have to play along for now. Sherlock wanted him to jump or shoot himself or _something_ —

_We'll be the passenger, we'll ride through the city tonight. Let's ride and ride ride ride. Singin—_

Sherlock's face twisted at the ringtone. Well, Jim, thought, not even twitching from how he covered Sherlock's head as best he could with Molly in the way, he would hate to have Iggy Pop as a ringtone too. Too manic and angry for his taste. This distraction was what he wanted, though, because the tight grip the other man had on Molly was loosening slightly.

"Do you mind if I get that?" There was a bit of self-consciousness in Sherlock’s tone which was disconcerting. Jim kept his head though.

"I'm not the one standing on a roof ledge."

"Well, that's easily fixed," Sherlock said with a bit of a shrug, pushing Molly forward as he hopped down. Jim didn't drop the gun but he did flick the safety so that it didn't fire accidentally as he dove forwards to catch Molly with one arm. She got the blindfold off herself and sat down better on the roof to take some deep breaths. Jim let her be. Sherlock was several dozen feet away from them, yelling at someone over the phone before sinking into silence in an instant.

"Are you sure?"

Pause.

"You had best be sure, or else I'll make you regret making me turn my sniper elsewhere." He put the phone away from his mouth and turned to face Jim and Molly, "Molly, we'll have to do a rain-check on that quality time. Moriarty! Kill you later!" The phone went back up to his ear and his free hand rose in the air, fingers snapping cleanly just once.

Jim had the distinct feeling that he'd had a sniper's red laser trained on his chest for longer than he would like to think about. _That_ was why Sherlock had had Molly blindfolded—so she couldn’t in some way alert him to the fact.

"Molly."

"Shut up."

"No, you need to hear this."

"Shut up."

"Your choice in men is abominable as usu—" She stood up and slapped him, and when he turned back to her—that had _hurt_ —she grabbed him by the cheeks and kissed him full on the mouth. Jim didn't particularly know what to do with that until he noticed her still shaking hands. _Relief, survivor's rush_ , _adrenaline and endorphins_. He couldn't kiss her while she wasn't fully herself. If he was going to kiss Molly, he wanted to kiss Molly when she was fully in control of herself. He wanted her to kiss him because of something stupid and happy and silly—not because they’d both nearly been killed by a sociopath.

"Shut up," she said against his lips after a brief parting for breath.

"I didn't say anythi—" he managed at the next breath.

"Doesn't matter. Shut. Up."

* * *

 

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